


Blinded By The Lights

by lost_our_graces



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Alternative Universe - Circus, Alternative Universe - The Greatest Showman, Angst, Astrology, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Mentions of Racism, Mentions of homophobia, Victorian Prejudices, gender disguise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-18 00:07:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13670163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lost_our_graces/pseuds/lost_our_graces
Summary: Victorian Era Norway. Even Bech Næsheim runs the greatest (okay, the only) circus in Kristiania. The problem? He's broke, and his newly appointed, treacherous trapeze artists have made off with his profits. When he advertises for a new dynamic pair to light up the stage, all his wishes are granted by the boy and girl that come to audition for him. They are beautiful, talented and captivate the audience like no other... but all is not as it seems.As Even starts to fall for 'Isabel', the Angel of Kristiania, Isak comes to despise the disguise he has inflicted on himself.Will they fall or fly together?A 'The Greatest Showman' inspired fic.





	Blinded By The Lights

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings! And Happy Valentine's Day (well, close enough...)
> 
> I recently saw The Greatest Showman and absolutely fell in love with it. I loved the idea of applying it to Skam, and this is the result. This does not follow the film closely, or at all really; it's an entirely independent story (so you don't have to have seen the film), but there is definitely some homages to it running throughout. Even in particular is a mixture of PT Barnum and Philip as a character, while Isak has elements of Anne Wheeler but is very much his own character with his own struggles here. I absolutely did not want to take away from the film's beautiful depiction of an interracial relationship during the Victorian era, but I did want to draw parallels between that and the struggles that a m/m couple would need to overcome as well. With that said, the struggles are more internal here; aside from some implications about the dangers that LGBT people would have faced at the time, the main obstacle Isak needs to overcome here is himself. 
> 
> I would warn for some gender identity issues: Isak is not struggling with gender identity in the context we've come to expect. He is, however, disguised as a woman for much of the fic, by his own volition, and he has some insecurities around that. 
> 
> There are a number of references to The Greatest Showman soundtrack - see if you can spot them all ;-)
> 
> I didn't do tons of research for this fic and I'm no great expert on the Victorian Era, particularly not Victorian Norway, but a few points to consider: 
> 
> 1\. I'd place this at the end of the Nineteenth Century.  
> 2\. Oslo was known as Kristiania back then (spellings of this vary but this seemed to be the popular choice)  
> 3\. It was a time of economic growth, opportunity and further travel than ever before. It may be a hard sell to imagine a bustling, popular circus in Norway, but hey, this is fantasy go with it!  
> 4\. The 'royal visit' in the fic is by the King of Sweden as Sweden ruled over Norway during this period.  
> 5\. I definitely don't claim to be an astrology expert, but I loved the idea of linking in some astrology as a result of 'Rewrite The Stars' (the second best song on the soundtrack, after Never Enough, if you'd like to know.)  
> 6\. (That doesn't explain why the title is taken from the third best song, From Now On, but I thought it worked best for the fic.)
> 
> Now, without further ado... welcome to the greatest show! Please comment if you enjoyed, I'd love to hear your thoughts.

**Prologue**

 

High above the stage, above the rows of cushioned benches where the audience cheers and applauds, the final act of the evening begins. The roof of the big top tent meets into a single point, and below that a young girl flies from the rigging, as swift as a sparrow, her body covered in glitter and gold.

The audience tilt their their heads up to the heaven, transfixed. 

She knows each spin, each precise movement. _The Angel of Kristiania_ , the crowd murmurs. Logic and science dictate that no person is capable of flight, and yet as they watch her, they cast aside logic and science for a little while. It seems to pale in insignificance to the flight of wonderment above them.

For the most part, they do not look closely enough to see the pain in her eyes, nor the strange look of acceptance as the routine thunders towards its finale. They gasp, hands pressed together, ready to erupt into applause, as the handsome catcher sweeps from his perch and builds up two, three swings of his flying trapeze.

The Angel of Kristiania jumps from her ropes, hands barely extended.

The catcher stretches out his own hands, ready to bridge the distance, but the audience do not see the grim horror in his eyes either. They do not notice the hands that remain outstretched as the girl misses his grip. They do not hear his cry of dismay above their own gasps of horror.

The girl falls towards the ground, and the audience are as helpless to watch as the catcher above her, and the ringmaster below her.

* * *

**Norway, the late 19th century**

 

“Ladies and gents, this is the moment you’ve waited for!” Even roars to the crowd.

 The crowd does not roar back.

Even plasters on a smile anyway, the whites of his teeth laid bare for each man, woman and child facing him. It is his job to make them believe they’re soon to witness the greatest show on earth. If _he_ believes it, if _he_ wills it with enough fervor, it will surely happen. Maybe not tonight - not with a handful of barely trained, hungry and anxious circus performers, struggling to remember their cues, and a scattershot crowd that don’t even fill out the first two rows of benches - but _one day_ he will speak this into existence.

One day, _Bech Næsheim’s Circus_ will be the talk of Kristiania and far, far beyond.

“Do I have a show for you!” he exclaims. “A daring, dangerous show! A sparkling, spectacular show! A show that defies logic and sneers at science! A show that glitters like the stars in the firmament! We are here to make the impossible come true!”

There are a few coughs from the audience, and from backstage he hears Magnus’s voice carry through, pleading with Agnes the Elephant to stand still.

“Without further ado!” Even says, and signals to the three-piece band to the right of the stage. They burst into an tinny-sounding overture that barely fills the tent.

He doesn’t stop smiling until he has disappeared behind the curtains that separate the performers from the paying audience. Once he has cleared the distance, and remembered to stop, to lower his voice so it doesn’t carry through, he turns to face his ragtag bunch of employees.

“What’s happening?” he asks Magnus who is pushing his hair back from his forehead. The clown makeup is melting and he looks worried. Agnes agrees with his assessment of the situation, sounding through her trunk unhappily.

“Something has spooked her,” Vilde answers for him. Even narrows his eyes.

“And what would that be?”

They all look at each other, hoping another brave soul will speak up. Eventually Vilde realises she needs to finish what she started. “Well, Noora and William… they’ve gone.”

“Gone?” Even asks blankly. Noora and William are his aerial act. They’re the only remotely decent thing about the show, even if one of them is not quite as impressive as he seems to believe. “What do you mean, _gone_?”

“William said that Swedish circuses will pay more. They walked out of here while you were…” Magnus gestures with splayed hands, “doing your thing.”

Even’s mind starts to race, working out what this means for tonight’s show. He doesn’t take long to reach the following conclusions: One, the audience are already underwhelmed, and are becoming more underwhelmed by the moment. Two, the show will now finish with Magnus & Vilde, The Elephant Taming Clowns (they’re yet to acquire a lion); Magnus’s grand finale is to climb onto the back of the elephant and attempt a handstand, which he may or may not succeed in (not that it matters too much if he doesn’t, as clowns are supposed to be clumsy.)

The third conclusion, the most galling conclusion of all, is that Even _paid_ that absolute cad of a trapeze artist, William, and his starry-eyed wife Noora, the entire takings from the past five nights - the first week, indeed, that the circus has been operational - in order to promote them as the main attraction tonight, and for the rest of the week.

He brings a fist to his mouth, breathing against it, tempted to bite into his skin. He can lucidly imagine his father’s mocking words, the derision to his laughter as he hears this news.

Even could have paid the wages of the entire fleet for a week, for the amount he spent on those two charlatans. He had paid with blind faith, believing they would bring in the paying audience the circus so desperately requires.

And maybe they would have, if they weren’t well on their way to Sweden by now.

“Even?” Magnus asks. He’s closer to Even now, his mouth painted in an exaggerated smile that seems to mock the general disposition of the performers in the room. “What should we do?”

Even eyes the teenagers standing in front of him. Next up is Christine’s bearded lady act, though the beard is stuck on; she is very pretty under the duplicitous artefact, and a decent singer, but there is no great drama to her act. Then the band will play as Eva the Contortionist wraps her legs up and around the curves of her womanly body. This is usually popular with a certain type of gentleman but Even doesn’t want to be seen to be encouraging _that_ type of clinentle.

There are the acrobats from Morocco - Mikael, Yousef, Adam, Mutasim and Elias - who have more in the way of enthusiasm and a lack of sense of personal safety than they do actual talent. And finally, there are Magnus and Vilde, at once clowns and elephant tamers, because Even had acquired Agnes with no handler.

Finally, his jewel in the crown, or what was supposed to _be_ the jewel in the crown: beautiful Noora with her handsome husband William, commanding the aerial heights of the circus tent like angels come to grace the circus with their celestial presence.

He brings his knuckle away from his mouth, shaking it out.

“Acrobats on last,” he declares. “Everyone else, bring your act forward.”

Magnus scurries away, and even through the amateurish clown makeup, Even can see a disappointed look on his face. He feels guilt lash through his stomach but he believes it for the best. The last act of the circus is unforgiving. It is the peak of the audience’s excitement, and with that comes the culmination of their decision as to whether they have spent their hard-earned money well. Some of them have been known to bring rotten eggs.

Not one of these acts are capable of closing the show, but at least the acrobat troupe, with their easy smiles and affectionate camaraderie, are capable of shrugging off any such form of hostility.

Even looks around the room at his loyal performers, who he has spun such daring dreams to. They listen to him when he rhapsodizes about the circuses he saw in Paris; the images he creates with his words and gestures alone, of the tragically beautiful clowns, the brave lion tamers, the siren-call of the bearded ladies’ song, and of course the death-defying, hopelessly romantic sky dance of the trapeze artists.

They trust Even, they believe he will make their fortunes come true. But for now all Even feels is a profound sense of fraudulent energy within him as he returns to the stage to introduce Christine.

* * *

Later that night, as dust swims like whispers through the beams of the oil lamps, and the circus ring becomes a silent, sleeping giant, Even takes ink to parchment and begins to draw. He draws a beautiful girl with flowing hair, suspended mid-jump as she reaches up to a handsome, broad shouldered boy, his body braced around a flying trapeze. 

In bold letters he writes underneath **_Angels Required_ **. He smiles. He likes that; it will appeal to anyone with a heart, with imagination and adventure coursing through their veins. Below the headline he expands:

 

 _(_ _1)_ __male and (1) female aerial performers needed for_ _Kristiania’s_ _Greatest_ _

_Bech Næsheim Circus!_

_You will dazzle audiences with your artistry!_

_You will create romance and intrigue!_

_You will make people believe they too can fly!_

_We are privileged to offer_ _Kristiania_ _audiences the most popular circus in town_

_Position offered by: Even Bech Næsheim, Ringmaster and Proprietor_

_Auditions to be held on the eight morning of this third calendar - arrive early!_

 

He smiles, proud of himself, as he finishes the writing with a flourish of a signature. _Should I put the salary down_ ? he wonders. But currently he can barely _afford_ a salary. He will have to hope that whoever sees this advert, and he plans to spread it widely, will take him at the good faith he feels confident in offering.

After all, it worked for the rest of his circus troupe, even though their smiles are becoming a little more strained, their questions about when they might expect some coin becoming a little more frequent.

“All we need is time, rehearsal, and one perfect final act, and we will eat like kings, and queens, for the rest of our lives,” Even tells them, eyes shining with confidence. And they believe him, they always do; so long as they have enough for meager meals, and a roof over their heads in the form of the out-trailers situated behind the tent, they continue to spin his dreams within their own imagination as they sleep at night.

Even _will not_ let them down. But he knows time is running out.

 

* * *

 

“Isak!” Jonas calls from down by the tracks. “Hurry, it’s coming!”

Huffing out a small sigh of annoyance at being cut short, Isak pulls away from one of the lingonberry shrubs that grow on the fringes of Eidsvoll. He grabs a handful of prickly leaves, shoving the picked berries into his pocket. Then he leaps down from the grassy knoll onto the flat surface below, and Jonas looks back at him, grinning.

“Ready?”

Isak nods, and they wait until the train is far enough gone that they are facing the open cattle carriages. With a running jump, they clamber up onto the side, scrambling until they are hidden from sight, a dozing horse in a locked cage their only company for the journey to Kristiania _._

“Berry?” Isak asks. Jonas pulls a face but takes a handful, rolling them in his hands.

“Just once I’d like something sweet, juicy. Raspberries, bursting like a waterfall over my tongue! Strawberries, sweeter than a girl’s mouth! Not this sour tasting, poor excuse for a fruit.”

“You’re such a poet,” Isak says, rolling his eyes. “But unless you have the money to buy us these oddly _lewd_ sounding berries, you’ll make do with what we find on our journey.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jonas says. “We’re almost in Kristiania. Once we’ve found this Bech Næsheim fellow, and convinced him to sign us as his star attraction, we’ll never go hungry again.” He smiles fondly at Isak. “I told you I would look after you, didn’t I?”

Isak returns the smile in kind. “You did.” His hand twitches over the strap of his burlap bag, the costume they’d stolen from the theatre in Gjøvik concealed within. He hasn’t been able to shake the thought of it since they’d made their escape. “Will it work?” he asks, before he can talk himself out of changing the subject. Jonas looks at him confidently.

“Of course it will. My plans always work.”

This isn’t quite true. Jonas’s _plan_ to leave the orphanage they had grown up in, to train as acrobats in the theatre shows that ran weekly in Gjøvik’s tiny theatre, had seen them trapped for months in relative captivity, forced to perform like chimpanzees for the bored travellers headed south to Kristiania, or East, towards Sweden. Isak bites his tongue though, or rather rolls a berry over it before biting into it. He grimaces. Jonas is right. They’re the first growth of the season, even more bitter tasting than usual.

His stomach grumbles and they both pretend they didn’t hear it.

“We’re through the worst part of the journey,” Jonas says, in order to placate Isak. “It _will_ get easier now, Isak.”

Isak’s mouth twists in embarrassment.

“You need to get used to calling me Isabel.”

“That was _your_ part of the plan. I still haven't agreed to it.”

“He wants a girl,” Isak points out. “You saw the poster.” He’s kept the advertisement in his own belongings, looking at it occasionally, running a finger over the delicate brushstrokes. He’s sure whoever drew it must be a wonderful artist, and he can sense the desire within that drawing for someone beautiful.

Isak isn’t beautiful, but Isabel is.

“We could be honest? He may just be profit-driven, like Mr Schistad. He may not care about what you do during the day. So long as we can create the illusion of _love’s young dream_ on stage, why would he care what you look like off of it?”

Jonas is right in one respect. Their shows in Gjøvik had been popular; Isak was aware that audiences enjoyed watching Jonas’s strong, compact body, his thick, dark curls and olive skin, contrasted with Isak’s long pale limbs.

It had not been their idea, it had been the will of the theatre owner. They had not been invited to give their own opinion. But the owner of the theatre had not been an overly cruel man. At the end of each performance, _Isabel_ had been allowed to take off her makeup, her long golden hair, her corseted leotard. Then he was Isak again, and he was happy for it.

But the stakes are higher in Kristiania. They do not know the proprietor of this new circus, or the other performers. They do not know what Kristiania is like, only that it is much bigger and more populous than anything they’ve ever been used to. Isak suspects that where there is more people, there is more danger.

If that same audience in Gjøvik had known they were watching two boys, they may not have been quite so forthcoming with their applause at the end of the show. Isak had risked his life every day by taking off _Isabel_ at the end of the night. He will not leave it to chance in Kristiania.

“Jonas,” Isak starts, needling, and Jonas sighs.

“You need to change, then.”

Isak looks down at the woven jumper that hangs off him, the trousers he’s had to bind with rope so they don’t fall down at the waist. He’s seen some girls on the street wearing trousers; they are easier for moving around in, after all. But it’s rare, and the illusion is always masculine. With his hair falling in blonde curls just above his ears, and his face... not yet the face of a man, but not overly feminine either, he’s aware that it would be a tough sell if he wasn’t dressed in feminine attire, a longer wig, with light rouge on his cheeks and tinted pomade on his lips.

He knows enough now to carry himself as a girl. He had to learn quickly, and aerial work is so physical that it’s easy to continue the charade off-stage.

They’re heading towards what is supposed to be freedom in Kristiania, the promise of a better life. But Isak will be in a different set of chains this time, and it will be constant, until they have enough money to leave.

“I’ve been thinking,” Isak says. Jonas looks at him, a thick eyebrow raised, and for a moment Isak is irrationally jealous that his face is so unmistakably masculine; sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, even the hint of stubble around his jawline at sixteen years old. “You should say that I do not speak. That I don’t know how to. The circus proprietor will not question it once he sees what we are capable of. He won’t care. But it will make the disguise easier for me.”

“But you talk so much!” Jonas says, a laugh half-formed in his breath. “How will you ever remember?”

“I do not!” Isak protests. “I am the _master_ of silence, I can stay silent for _days_ if I have to!”

“You could have let me know this at the start of our friendship, I’d almost certainly have asked you demonstrate it to me.”

Isak rolls his eyes. “I’m being serious. I would prefer not to have to affect my voice, to make it higher.”

Jonas stifles a laugh at that and Isak feels himself bristle. Maybe his voice is not so deep as a man’s yet, but he’s certain it is not unusually high pitched either. Finally Jonas gives in with a nod. “Whatever makes it easier. Shall we go over our story again?”

They practice, or at least Jonas does now he will be the one to tell it, as Isak gently prompts him. He is better with details than Jonas is, though Jonas is the better liar of the two because he understands the language of the body. His shoulders are relaxed, his gait unaffected by deceit. It is a trait Isak has always envied.

“How long will we stay?” Isak asks, needing reassurance. “How long until we can sail out to the Americas, to your father’s place of birth?”

“It depends what the circus pays,” Jonas says. “But Is… Isabel, we still haven’t decided if this is the best course of action. It is a long way to travel, and we know nothing of the language, the culture.” Isak can hear the bitterness tinging his friend’s words. They had both been placed in the orphanage before they had ever gotten to know their parents. Jonas’s only clue into his family history was a pocket watch his father had given to the matron that had watched over the children. On the smooth inside face, opposite the watch, was an engraving of Chile.

Isak had become fascinated with that engraving, perhaps even more fascinated than Jonas. The thought that there could be other places, _better_ places, far across the sea, where he could be someone different, someone he liked better, had stayed with him for many years.

Jonas indulged him, he always did, and he continues to, but sometimes Isak catches a distinct lack of enthusiasm within his voice. Isak can’t comprehend it. Most of the time he ignores it. Today is one of those days.

“I think we’ll be so much happier in another place,” Isak says, pushing on. “A place far away from here.”

“I don’t care, so long as we’re together,” Jonas tells him, and Isak feels a warm flush spiking around his ears and cheeks.

The hours pass by like the low trundling of the driving wheels beneath them. Day turns to early evening, casting a low pale light over the peaks and hills of southern Norway. Occasionally the horse whinnies out of turn, stamping its broad feet, but otherwise the sounds are repetitive, comforting.

Isak falls asleep for a few short hours, his head turned away from Jonas as he curls up on the the hard floor beneath him. They know each other’s hands and touch better than their own, because they trust each other with their bodies and their lives on a nightly basis as they spin so many feet above the ground. But outside of the stage, Isak rejects the friendliness of Jonas’s easy brotherly touch, and Jonas accepts that with no query.

Sometimes Isak thinks that if Jonas _was_ to touch him, was to slip his arm around his shoulder, or run his hand through Isak’s curls to help him sleep better at night, as he has tried to do in the past, Isak would never want him to stop. So he rejects it completely. It is easier that way.

When the train begins to slow to a walking pace, they slip down from the carriages to the banks of the river below. They set a course south, and begin the final part of their journey to Kristiania. 

* * *

 

There is nobody at the circus tent entrance when Even sends Magnus out to check at sunrise. Even waits behind the makeshift desk that he has fashioned for himself. A parchment and ink are laid out in front of him and he has drawn up an auditions list. Now he simply needs to populate it with names.

But as the morning progresses slowly, he begins to see that there is nothing _simple_ about that task.

The first person that arrives does not have a partner; he has trained in tightrope walking in Paris but Even is not after a tightrope walker. The equipment he has already purchased was expensive enough and he has no more coin left in his pocket. No matter how good this fellow is, he cannot accommodate him.

The second are two brothers from Denmark who fall to their knees when Even tells them _no_ , he needs a man and a woman. He has no real opinion on gender, pays no mind to it, but he is aware that the audience do. There is something vulnerable and real about a beautiful girl risking her life to entertain a captivated audience. It is a compulsion, Even believes, to see her among the heights of the circus tent. A man that is able to hold her, to gaze at her adoringly, as he catches her before a fall… it is a tale greater than even Shakespeare could tell.

The third are a man and woman, married, but they have no experience. They are not even dancers. They are simply desperate. Even allows them onto the ropes, but the man begins to buck against the hoop as the sandbags fall, lifting them higher. “Down!” he calls, and Even sighs, adding weight to the other side.

 There is no grace in what they do, no elegance. And too much fear. Even sends them on their way and slumps down at his chair, already close to defeat.

 “Perhaps you could ask Sonja to leave Paris?” Magnus suggests. His voice quavers as if fearful of the response. “She was your muse, wasn’t she?”

“She was, once upon a time. But now she is…” Even searches for the word. The feeling of shame surrounding his courtship with Sonja is painful to recall. They explored Paris as lovers, more than lovers, until she became content to act as his carer rather than his inspiration. He had fallen from love hard. “She is a long way from here.”

The last he heard of her, she was performing in the famous Folies Bergère cabaret hall.  Even had returned to Norway determined to find beauty that surpassed her own, but surrounded by none of the ugliness that Paris was inclined towards. For a moment, he believed he had found it in Noora. _Damn her_ , he curses. _And damn William for possessing that beauty so completely_.

He needs to drink. Needs to forget the bleakness of his fortunes. Once again his father’s voice booms in his ear. _“This is folly, Even, and I will have no part in it!”_

“I will be at the tavern,” he tells Magnus, standing up. Vilde and Eva have come to join them, to find out whether they have had any success. They shoot each other worried glances.

“Perhaps you should at least wait until… another hour, or so?” Vilde suggests, her voice almost a squeak. They are desperate, all of them, and it sickens Even that he has betrayed them so abysmally. “You never know, Even, someone might walk in at any-”

And then they look up, as a girl and boy, no older than teenagers, enter the tent and look around appraisingly.

“We’re here to become your circus stars,” the boy says. His voice is confident and fills the tent. But Even barely hears him. He’s fixated on the girl, her wide green eyes taking in the space around him; the vast heights of the big top tent. There’s a curiosity there that halts Even in his tracks.

“Are… are you, indeed?” Even says, finally remembering to address them. “That is a bold claim.”

The boy pays almost no attention to his surroundings. He walks forward and takes Even’s hand in his own, shaking it firmly. “You will see for yourself when we perform for you.”

They are captivating, the pair of them, Even realises. The boy is darker, sturdy and handsome. He has an easy smile that almost suggests arrogance, but his tone is warm, non-threatening. The girl is dressed in a shabby dress, her hair a halo of blonde curls that falls past her shoulders.

She is easily the most beautiful thing that Even has ever seen.

“Your names?” Even asks her, hoping to draw her into the conversation, but the boy speaks again. “I am Jonas, and this is my sister, Isabel.”

There’s a sharp laugh at that, and they glance to see Magnus covering his mouth, embarrassed.

“I think what Magnus means to say is… brother and sister?” Even asks, confused. “You look nothing alike.”

“We have different fathers. Mine is from Chile, Isabel’s from Sweden. Both sailors. Our mother was… a wanton woman.” Jonas screws his nose up as if he cannot abide mentioning her, but Isabel barely takes the conversation in. She is clearly taking in every detail of the tent she has found herself in, and Even feels a surge of pride that the tent is _his_.

Through her eyes, he sees the circus anew. A familiar drive return to him. _I will make this a success_ , he thinks.

“So,” Even says, dragging his gaze away from Isabel to look back at Jonas. “You were brought up by your mother alone? That must have been difficult for her. For all of you.”

“No, we were placed in an orphanage from a young age. We barely remember her. But the matron there was fond of telling us about her slatternly ways.”

“Oh?” Even asks. Isabel has wandered over to the mural that Even has erected behind the first set of tired benches. She is looking at it with a rapt expression on her face, and Even is about to join her, to explain that it was influenced by the artwork of Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, a brilliant Parisian artist he has had the pleasure of meeting a few times, when Jonas calls, “Isa... um, Isabel, come, we are introducing ourselves.”

“It’s fine,” Even says, trying not to puff his chest out in pride. “Do you like it?” he asks, and she turns her pretty face to him, her cheeks pink. “I painted it myself.”

“She does not speak,” Jonas says. “She has never been able to.”

Even feels a sharp pang at that. _Unable to speak_? How is that possible. She appears keen of body and of mind, her eyes sharply intelligent and interested in all she sees. He can deduce that minutes after meeting her. The mute people he has known have been impaired in some way, head injuries or birth defects that have rendered their tongues useless.

And yet he remembers reading about this once, in the many books stacked in his father’s library; there is a kind of post traumatic disorder that can leave someone incapable of speaking. Could it be? He looks at the girl, and she looks back at him, and then drops her eyes, as if ashamed.

Even thinks about the story that Jonas has told him. He does not believe they are brother and sister. They are not at all alike; not in body, manner or temperament. They seem a little uneasy around each other although he does not sense any fear on Isabel’s part.

If Even had not been interested in the arts, he believes he would have made a decent detective. He is interested in the human condition and is naturally curious about how other people’s minds tick, perhaps because his own mind is an unreliable place to reside. There is more to work out here about these two strangers, and he intends to commit to it.

But for now, he is almost desperate to see them perform.

He takes them onto the stage and Jonas nods, casting his eyes over the rigging. “It’s a similar set up to the theatre,” he tells Isabel. He doesn’t miss the anxious pull of her mouth, and he immediately attempts to reassure himself it means nothing.

He needs this girl to be perfect when she performs. He needs her to _fly_.

“Are you sure she’s okay with it?” Even asks Jonas. “A low-rent theatre is a different beast entirely to a five star circus.”

He’s met with a glare of indignation from flashing green eyes, and the look sends blood rushing straight to his groin. Jonas laughs at him, walking over to pat his arm. “Go take a seat. We’ll show you how _sure_ we are.”

Even smiles, indulging him. He joins Magnus, Vilde and Eva on the front bench, watching as they head to either side of the stage, uncoiling the ropes and lowering one sandbag down towards the stage as another flies upwards. Even notices that Jonas’s eyes never leave Isabel’s face, as if he’s worried about something, and an idea begins to unfold his mind.

 _Lovers_? he wonders. He doesn’t know why the word sounds ugly in his head. He is a great fan of love in all its many forms, but if they are truly _together_ like that, if they are prepared to go to such great lengths to protect their love… and in crude terms their love would be a dark-skinned man and a white-skinned woman, frowned upon and scorned by society... then what chance does Even have to-

 _To what_? his snaps at himself. _You have no claim here. Only as a potential proprietor._

He hardens his jaw and looks ahead of him. They have finished setting up the rigging to their specification and are now discarding their clothes. They’re dressed to perform underneath; Jonas in tight leggings, wrapped feet, and nothing more, and Isabel in a corseted leotard, her legs entirely bare except for the thick ribbons wrapped round her feet and slender ankles. Now they are in a state of undress, Even can see that Jonas’s body is broad, stocky; he is actually a tiny degree shorter than Isabel, whose long legs seem never ending. Her frame is smaller, her waist tiny, but her thighs are thick and Even lowers his eyes, embarrassed at how primitively his body responds.

Beside him, Eva makes a small noise of approval, and Even looks to see her eyes fixed on Jonas’s chest. She glances at Even and gives a weak smile. “He is handsome.”

He is. They both are. They are a beautiful couple, and Even can only hope that they light the stage up with that beauty. It would be a small consolation at this point.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Even tells them once they stand in the middle of the stage, ready to begin. Jonas gives a small nod at Isabel, smiles encouragingly as she wraps her hand around the ribboned sash, and pulls down on the first weighted rope. Immediately she lifts upwards, her legs coiling, spinning like a ballerina in a jewellery box, and any tension in her body, on her face, disappears completely as she deftly wraps herself around the ribbon before rolling down to it, inches from the stage, before dropping the rope back at the other side.

Then she is a hundred feet above the stage, her legs a straight, elegant line above her head; she parts them and flips herself over and Magnus, Vilde and Eva gasp beside Even.

Even’s heart aches. _She_ is _perfect_ , he realises.

She jumps from the ribbon to the hoop, and there is no fear in her eyes. Even eventually notices Jonas, who has climbed the rigging and is now building up a momentum from the flying trapeze. He shifts onto his legs in the last minute, strong thighs spread across the bar as he braces them, and Isabel builds up her own rhythm, moving first from the hoop to the second flying trapeze and then finally leaping, her body spinning out two somersaults before her hands clap Jonas’s hand.

Even’s heart is fit to burst; he stands and applauds, and the three beside him leap up with him. They remain applauding as Jonas and Isabel, catcher and flier, lower themselves back onto the stage.

“Sure enough for you?” Jonas asks. Even can barely find words. Instead he nods. “Excellent. So. How much are you going to pay us?”

Even pulls a face. “I-”

“What?” Jonas asks, not missing a beat. “You cannot afford us?”

“I have some… cash flow problems, currently. Perhaps you can work on a… we can call it a commission?” Even chances.

“We’ll work for you for free for the first week, provided you accommodate us and feed us. After that, we require a percentage of your total profits.”

Even blinks, a little taken aback. He hadn’t expected a boy younger than him to be quite such a hard taskmaster. “Fair enough, you want a piece of the action. Seven percent. Let’s shake on it.”

Jonas lets out a highly amused, highly strident laugh. “I wasn’t born this morning. Eighteen will be just fine.”

It’s Even’s turn to laugh, and Jonas _and_ Isabel glare at him now. “Fine. Fifteen,” Jonas tries.

“Eight.”

“Ten?”

Magnus, Eva and Vilde watch this exchange with wide-open mouths. Eva raises her eyebrows at that offer, as if to say _Don’t you dare lose them_ , and Even sighs. He extends his hand, and Jonas leaps from the stage and shakes it with a flourish.

“I guess we just went into business, Mr Bech Næsheim.”

"Please," Even says, winking at Isabel. "Call me Even."

* * *

 

 

Rain beats down on the trailer roof when Isak finally gets to it in the early hours of the morning. They had been celebrating their first sell-out show with much alcohol and opium, but Isak does not trust himself around it. Unlike Jonas he has never been able to drink heavily without consequence, much less take substances deliberately intended to alter minds. He would almost certainly slip up if he continued to drink the champagne mixed with absinthe that Mr Bech Næsheim had prepared for them. 

 _No, not Mr Bech_ _Næsheim_ , he reminds himself. _Even_. Not that it makes any difference; Even had told Jonas to call him Even, but Isak doesn’t get to call him anything. He is voiceless, and though this has succeeded in making his disguise easier, it is becoming increasingly difficult to remember to stay silent.

He collapses on the bed, his limbs loose and weary from the labours of these last few weeks. He wants to sink down into a world that doesn’t exist, until there’s nothing but darkness and softness surrounding him. Sometimes he dreams of falling, of Jonas’s hands coming to catch him, and failing at the last minute, but he never hits hard ground in those dreams; he keeps falling, and falling, until he is deep under the ground and it feels like velvet and lotion and warm bath water.

 _Maybe that’s what the sun in the Americas will feel like on our skin_ , he thinks, but the ‘our’ is a little more laboured than usual. Jonas has spent most of the week laughing and joking with Eva, the flame-haired contortionist, and Isak feels his hope dim with each stolen glance and whispered flirtation.

He eventually shifts, sitting upright so he can begin to unwrap his feet. They’re cracked and sore, but the thick binding has prevented the worst of it. The tender, cracked skin behind his knees is where it hurts most. He longs to feel soft lips kissing the worst of the pain and exhaustion away, but it is a fleeting fantasy.

“Isabel?” The door creaks open and Isak looks up sharply, his mouth pulling into a thin line as he braces himself for silence. Even stands at the door, his tall frame stooping to fit into the cramped trailer. “I wanted to check you had got here safely.”

Isak lifts his hands up, gesturing around him. _I’m fine_. He tries not to look into the deep blue eyes, especially as they show concern rather than an easier-to-contend-with emotion like disinterest.

“You have done so magnificently this week,” Even says, clearly in no hurry to leave. “You and Jonas both, of course. The audience loves you. You are the talk of the town.”

Isak had never wanted to be the talk of anything. Mr Schistad had thrust him into the spotlight, a young boy who had made a convincing young girl, and Isak had learned quickly how to move gracefully, how to navigate the ropes and the rigging and the hoop and the ribbons; his body had memorised the movements as easily as if he was being taught to walk or run. But the eyes that had followed his movements, the catcalls that often accompanied his bare legs spread open in graceful repose, had made him feel like a whore that walked the docks at night.

“Of course,” Even continues, his voice lowering, “Being the talk of the town is all well and good, but you have done so much more than that. This circus… we were on our knees, ready to give up, before you and Jonas came to us. Perhaps that is worth more? I’m not sure. But I know I’m grateful.”

 _Don’t look at him_ , Isak tells himself. _If you look at him, you will fall for him._

He keeps his eyes on his ankles, on the half-untied ribbons. He moves back to them, continuing to untie them. He feels Even’s eyes on his legs, on his thighs, his calves, and he wants to scream with some unknown emotion.

It isn’t an unpleasant emotion. But the implications? The implication are worrisome.

“You do not like to drink?” Even asks. Isak shakes his head, his fists curled around the ribbon, pausing, before he pulls it off completely. He does like to drink. He just _can’t_ drink. “Not like your brother, then.”

Isak shakes his head again.

This intensity, this charming nature that the ringmaster exhibits, he thinks it will be the death of him. While Jonas has found himself drawn to Eva, like a moth to a flame, Isak has resisted every urge inside of him to open his mouth and tell Even _I can speak, I want to speak to you, I want to know everything about you_ that has engulfed him this past week.

Isak falls in love easily. It is a curse that afflicts him, but he has never known it to rush upon him like this. With Jonas it became something natural that developed over time; he felt it as a younger brother may feel love towards an older brother, but also, more disturbingly, how a student might fall for a teacher. Jonas is the same age as him, or thereabouts, but Isak has never considered him a true peer. In the orphanage he was knowledgeable beyond his years; he believed strongly in the principles of truth and justice. He would spin circles around the matron that presided over their ward, challenging her antiquated Christian views, and Isak would stare at him in rapt attention, wishing his tongue was as sharp, his mind as keen.

“Is the trailer comfortable?” Even asks. He seems to be in no hurry to leave, and it makes Isak’s heart pound a little faster. “I trust you have enough privacy here?”

Isak blushes at that. Jonas had insisted on a separate trailer to the other performers, even though they all bunked with each other - five, six, to each trailer. Both Isak and Jonas had felt deceitful, watching four of the troupe take their belongings from the trailer Isak now sits in, piling uncomfortably into the already-cramped one next door, but what other choice did they have? If Isak shared with other women, his identity would soon be revealed.

Even is staring at him expectantly and he nods, smiling gratefully. Even beams at him, looking around. “Good. I know I cannot offer our circus stars much luxury, but this is the most comfortable trailer I possess. A small token of my appreciation.” He points to the stars painted above the bed; Isak has stared up at them many times this week.

He can see Castor and Pollux as Gemini, and his stomach twists in discomfort at how accurate this constellation he was born under has proven to be; he feels as though he lives a double life, as listless and light as the air that breezes through his skies.

He can see the archer, Sagittarius, and he thinks of Jonas, of his bravery and showmanship. Jonas views the world as his playground, and Isak knows he would follow him anywhere.

And of course there is Aquarius, the cup bearer. When Isak was a child, he poured over the story of Ganymede, the beautiful boy beloved by Zeus, who had been granted eternal youth. He looks to the constellation, and then back at Even, and smiles a little, and Even follows his gaze.

“You study the stars?”

Isak shrugs. What can he say? He knows that astrology is seen as little more than a pastime of housewives and doomsday harbingers. Modern science has disproved every strand of it, relabelled it as a frivolous pastime rather than a physical science.  He snatches these bouts of information in every newspaper and journal he can get get his hands on. But the stars have always held a fascination for him. He feels like he trusts them more than he trusts his own mind sometimes.

“I wish I could talk to you about them,” Even says. Isak is alarmed to hear sadness in his voice. “Have you ever been to North Norway? The stars are so bright, so low, I swear that when you lay back and gaze up on them, it is like falling up into the heavens.”

Isak’s heart pounds with _need_ but he keeps his eyes trained on the roof above him. “So what do you think I am, Isabel? Which star sign was I born under?”

Isak hesistes for a moment before pointing upwards, towards Aquarius. He looks back to Even who is staring at him, a little taken aback.

“Usually people go for Leo. Sometimes Taurus, the bull. You are the first who has immediately deduced Aquarius, and therefore deduced correctly.” His voice is low, reverent. “And you? What are your stars, angel?”

Isak ignores the name, certain it means nothing more than a reference to his airborne acrobatics. He is about to point to Gemini when he feels a feeling of doubt bloom in his stomach. _Do not give too much of yourself away_ , he scolds himself. Instead he moves his finger to Virgo.

“Ah,” Even says, smiling. “The maiden. Yes, I suppose-” His voice falters a little, and Isak stares at him, blinking. “Well, I would have gone for something different. But that is okay. It is only the stars, and stars are not so important as the minds and bodies that reside here on our lonely planet.”

He leans forward then, and brushes Isak’s hair from his face. His fingers are long, gentle, and Isak bites his tongue until he feels blood. He so badly wants to ask what Even has seen in him: which sign, which set of stars?

But he moves his head to one side, shaking it slightly, and Even pulls away, fingers curling into a guilty, protective fist.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he sounds as though he genuinely means it. “If I am being inappropriate, just-” He stops himself from completing the sentence. “Hold your hand up. At any time. Tell me with your hand to stop.”

He leaves the trailer, and Isak takes several breaths, trying to steady his beating heart.

 _That’s all very well_ , he wants to call after him. _But how do I tell you to continue_?

* * *

 

It is Isabel’s job to fall, but Even feels as though he falls a little more each time he sees her perform. She moves as though gravity is not a factor in her equation; she spins like a Catherine wheel and people travel from far and wide to see her.

Even was in love with Sonja, he would never deny that to himself, but it was a leadsom and heavy love that felt like a noose around his neck; the more time he spent with her, the tighter the noose became.

Isabel has not spoken one word to him, _cannot_ speak one word to him, and yet she stares at Even with an intensity and a desire that belies her silent demeanor.

And yet when Even tries to draw closer to Isabel, to reaffirm to himself that he isn’t simply imagining the way she looks at him, there is Jonas, always Jonas, glaring at him, pushing him away.

It would make sense if they were brother and sister, as Jonas claims, but they are _not_ brother and sister. Even is sure of it.

It would make sense, indeed, if they were lovers, and sometimes he thinks he sees it, in Isabel’s countenance; the way she lifts her head up to Jonas mid-catch, her eyes wide and soft and trusting, the sort of look one casts at a person they have loved for many years. But Even has noticed that the look is never reciprocated. And besides, if Jonas is never too far from Isabel, the same can now also be said about Eva.

They are falling in love, the catcher and the contortionist. When Eva is on stage, her pale skin shining under the lights as she dances just the right side of lewdly, her thick legs extended, her bosom heaving, hair wild and chaotic as it whips from side to side, Even watches Jonas watching _her_ , and he sees the animal lust in his eyes.

Two days ago, as Even had walked around the grounds outside of the tent, hoping to find Magnus to share a word with him about the upcoming show, he had heard that animal lust manifested in carnal noises; Even had gone on tiptoes to peer into to the dusty window of the trailer, and on the bed he saw Jonas and Eva, bodies wrapped round one another, his hands at her breasts as she gasped and reached back to pull his curly hair, drawing him closer.

He had spoken to Magnus about it later, needing to hear someone else’s thoughts on it. “Perhaps… I mean, is it possible that Jonas is cheating on Isbael?” Magnus asked. Even had considered that.

“Would he do it so blatantly?”

“Maybe she has come to expect it?”

It’s possible, of course. It’s possible Jonas has trapped Isabel in some sort of loveless relationship, where he is free to pursue any woman he chooses while expecting her to remain chaste, faithful. Many men do so, and many wives are forced to accept it.

But Even sees genuine affection when he watches Jonas, and the way he treats Isabel. He is kind, he is devoted, he is protective… but he is not _in love_.

It is always at the back of Even’s mind, this strange relationship he has found himself an observer of… or perhaps slightly more than an observer. For he is closer to falling in love with Isabel every day, and he doesn’t have one clue what to do about it.

One day, he comes to the outside paddock where Agnes is kept. He finds Isabel feeding her, and he watches from a distance, a small smile on his lips, as she leans forward to nuzzle against the thick trunk. Then she lets out a gasp as Agnes lifts her with it; it’s a surprisingly throaty sound, the most Even has ever heard her utter, and he lets out a loud laugh, walking closer, as Isabel clambers onto the elephant’s back.

“She likes you,” Even says. “She doesn’t do that for everyone.”

Isabel raises an eyebrow. She is lying down, flat against Agnes’s wrinkled skin, rising and falling with each heavy breath. She looks worried about something, but Even has no idea what.

“Do you know how I acquired her? Has Magnus told the story?”

She continues to watch him, wide eyed and unsure, but eventually she shakes her head.

“There is a famous music hall in Paris, the _Folies Bergèr_. I spent a number of years there two or three years ago, when I was not much older than you. One night a man led Agnes through to the hall; she was scared and frightened and making the most tremendous noise. He whipped her continuously, and many at the club found it funny.”

Isabel’s eyes are becoming more narrow as she takes the story in, and Even watches as her hand comes out to run comfortingly across the elephant’s flank.

“I had fallen out of love with Paris some weeks before; it is beautiful, decadent, everything you’d expect. But it is also cruel, unnecessarily frivolous. People have lost their minds a little there. I stayed for the show that night, watched as they tied ropes around her, shoved her from side to side. Later I led her out onto the Rue Richer and walked her down to the docks.”

Isabel rises up as if meaning to ask something, her mouth a frustrated line, and Even takes a guess: “If you’re wondering, did anyone find it strange, a man walking an elephant through the moonlit streets of Paris? No. People are so used to seeing strange and unimaginable sights there, they barely cast me a second glance. Even the man who I chartered to take me by boat back to Kristiania took no notice.”

He stops for a moment, remembering his father’s face as he walked the elephant to his country house on the outskirts of Kristiania. “My father was furious. He had been writing to me for months on end, telling me that I needed to return from Paris, that I was wasting my time there, and so I _did_ return, with this… well… _abundant_ reminder of the worst of Paris’s excesses and follies.”

His heart thrills a little when Isabel suddenly giggles. Her teeth are uneven, small gaps between them; the imperfection makes her more perfect still in Even’s eyes.

“I am much happier here, anyway, away from his judgemental attitude. Agnes is a metaphor, really, for his intolerance of my happiness.” He runs a hand down her trunk and she snorts some air out at him. “I mean, she’s not an _actual_ metaphor, she’s just-” He looks up to see Isabel staring at him, confused, and he smiles.

“Well, let’s just say the company here is immensely more pleasing than the company I’ve kept so far.”

Isabel stares at him and smiles again, but this time it is smaller, and it is more reflective. She gives Agnes one last rub before hopping down lightly onto the dusty ground beneath them. She is dressed in gathered shorts that look like underwear, a vest that hangs loosely from her shoulders but doesn’t quite meet the waistline. Even tries not to stare at the bare skin of her waist. It is one thing to see her performing in a leotard; another to stand opposite her, as her manager but also as something he isn’t quite willing to acknowledge, as she waits, exposed, for him to speak.

Or to act.

He swallows sharply, yelping slightly when he feels Agnes’s trunk at his back, pushing him forward. _Damn elephant, too perceptive for her own good_ , he thinks. But now he _is_ close to Isabel, close enough to wrap his hands around her waist, to pull her close, if she so wished.

Staring at her face, her wide open expression, he does not think she would pull away.

He anchors himself, bringing his head close to hers. She gazes up at him, waiting, and he comes closer still. Then his lips are on hers and she is clinging to him as he pulls her towards him. His hands come down to her waist, to the soft bare skin there, and she makes a small noise at the back of her throat, low and needy. Even pulls away to smile at her, to reassure her.

“I believe I have fallen for you, Isabel.”

The next thing he knows she is stumbling back, steadied by Agnes’s trunk. She sidesteps, her eyes never leaving Even. And then she speaks.

“We can’t do this.”

He is about to open his mouth in amazement and in disbelief. The words start to formulate in his head: he needs to beg her to say something else. But then she breaks into a run. She leaves before he has time to reflect on what happened, and he stands pinned to the spot, stunned in the wake of her revelation.

* * *

 

“Tell me about Chile,” Isak asks. He’s burrowed deep into the bed covers, his voice barely a whisper. He hears Jonas huff out a fond breath from the twin bed opposite.

“I’ve told you all I know. You learned about it at the same time I did. Why don’t you tell _me_ in return?”

“Because I like listening to your voice.”

There’s a pause, and Jonas sighs again, but it’s a little more reserved this time. “I’d prefer to hear you speak. I never thought I’d say it but I miss your brattish voice when we’re with other people. Now I have nobody to make fun of.”

Isak doesn’t respond to the insult in there, good natured as it is; instead he thinks about the words he spoke to Even, and how it may have ruined everything. Since that afternoon he’s not allowed himself to be alone. He has stuck to Jonas like glue. Jonas lets him, of course he does, but Isak knows he’s becoming a thorn in his best friend’s side.

 _He wants to be with Eva, not you_ , says the voice in his head, the bad voice that tells him he’s unloveable, a freak, a sexual deviant.

He’s loved Jonas for years, and he carries years of shame with him as a result. He would have given himself to Jonas, if Jonas had ever wanted him. He almost gave himself over to the son of their previous owner, almost let him take his virginity under the stage where they kept the scenery and props from shows past, as spiders scuttled past them and cobwebs hung low, glittering in the dim gaslight. He’d watched as Jonas had beaten that same young man until his handsome face was bloody, and then they’d taken their meager belongings and ran, Isak still in the stage costume that he had been wearing that evening. The costume that he wears now, every night as he performs.

But his feelings of shame since arriving in Kristiania have dimmed. Sometimes he feels like letting Even take his face into his large hands, feels like letting him kiss Isak deeply and completely, until Isak is weak and limp and at once satisfied and desperate for more. Sometimes he feels like screaming _this is me_ , stripping his clothes, scrubbing off his makeup, so that Even is forced to see what he is clearly desperate to miss.

He believes Even might love him. He looks at Isak in a way that nobody ever has. Jonas looks at Isak with affection, with caring, and many men look at him… no, not him, but at _Isabel_ , with lust. But Even looks at him with lust, and care, but something else, something deeper.

Something like love.

Even has found him alone just once since the kiss. Just before their Saturday show had begun, he had taken Isak’s arm, running his finger over Isak’s exposed wrist in a comforting action.

“If you are worried about Jonas, we can fix it, okay? We can show him that he has no cause to worry about you. He is with Eva, anyway, and-”

Isak had cut him off with a sharp glare, and hurried away. _There is nothing in my stars that tells me I belong with Even_ , he had told himself. _You are deceitful beyond all measure: a boy posing as a girl. He has fallen in love with your twin. He has not fallen in love with you._

“You’re not upset are you?” Jonas asks, bringing Isak back to the present. “About me and Eva?”

“No,” Isak says. He isn't, not really. He thought he would be but his feelings for Jonas have become simple, as though he is viewing them from above rather than within. “If you are happy than I am happy for you.”

“It changes nothing, you know? We may not be related by blood but we are still blood brothers in my eyes. I will never abandon you. I promise.”

“Please tell me about Chile, then?” Isak begs him. There’s a sharpness to his voice that suggests tears, and Jonas takes a deep breath and extends his arm.

“Come lie with me then.”

“Jonas…”

“Just once, Isak, let me hold you.”

And just this once, Isak gives in, because it no longer feels duplicitous to do so. He is no longer in love with Jonas. He slips from his bed covers into Jonas’s bed, pushing back into his arms, and Jonas’s voice is low and steady in his ear as he speaks Isak to sleep, his tone as warm as the jungles he speaks of.  He speaks as if they have been many, many times before, and when Isak dreams, he dreams that he is far from here.

Only it is no longer Jonas he dreams himself next to.

* * *

 

One day, Even enters rehearsals with a parchment clutched in his hand, an incredulous expression on his face.

“The king of Sweden wishes to come watch our circus. It is being spoken of across the lands.”

Isak watches as Jonas turns to Eva, hugging her and whooping; he watches as the rest of the circus troupe embrace one another, their voices in turn joyful and anxious. He sits on the side, resting against the hoop, trying to feel some of that joy, but he feels nothing but numbness.

 _What use is there in meeting royalty_ , he thinks, _if royalty does not even know who you are?_

But then he looks to see Even approaching him, his handsome face crinkled around the eyes as he shows him the letter. Isak cannot read Swedish, and shakes his head, and Even reads out to the expectant troupe, “In particular, I hear that your aerial artists are among the finest in Norway, if not Europe. I am excited to see them perform.”

Jonas’s face is a picture of pride as Eva leans forward to brush her lips against his. Isak smiles, happy for him, at least, but he does not know why Even is looking at him so expectantly. It’s not as though he can speak to the king, to thank him for his recognition.

“You should feel happy about this,” Even tells him, as the group of performers break off into smaller groups, gossiping and speculating on what the visit could mean for their circus and their fortunes. “I told you once, you were the talk of the town. Now you are the talk of the continent.”

Isak rolls his eyes at that, and Even laughs.

“You really are incredibly animated at times, for someone who doesn’t speak.”

Isak glares at him and then pulls up on the rope, intending to disappear above the stage so he can rehearse in peace. He is not prepared, however, for Even to climb on with him. Isak lets out a small huff of annoyance as he attempts to prise Even’s hands off; they’re not so far above the stage that a fall will hurt him. But Even is strong and confident; he merely swings his body so that they are pressed together, and Isak bites his lip, looking down, hoping Jonas will put a stop to this.

He’s irritated to see the performers have wandered off outside, rehearsals forgotten in the wake of the news.

“Will you ever speak to me again, Isabel?” Even asks him. “Your voice was so sweet.”

Isak lets out a soundless laugh at that. He had been so afraid of Even guessing the truth about him, of _anyone_ guessing the truth about him, that he had inflicted silence on himself in a bid to protect his identity. Maybe there was no point. He is only sixteen, after all, and his voice is nothing like Jonas’s deep baritone.

“I would gladly give my entire fortune for one spoken declaration of love from you,” Even tells him, eyes mischievous, and Isak glares at him in response. “What? My fortune is vast now, as a result of your star quality!” Even chuckles. “Okay, maybe not _vast_ , but certainly… it’s looking healthier than it was.”

Isak wants to say _So is mine_ , because Even has paid him and Jonas generously; he has paid all the troupe generously, and seems happy to put the majority of his profit back into creating a circus they can all be proud to be a part of. He appears to be a singularly kind-hearted man, and yet sometimes Isak catches a hint of _old money_ about him, and he tries to be distrustful as a result.

Jonas had always told him that money, particularly inherited money, poisons people over time. Even doesn’t _look_ poisoned, but then again, poison is not discernible in the bloodstream.

Isak realises at this point he’s simply looking for reasons not to fall harder for Even, but it feels like each one is futile, and a lie. There is only one thing he needs to remember: _Even would not want you if he knew the truth about you._

He shifts uncomfortably as Even brings a hand to his cheek, gazing softly into his eyes. Isak leans into the touch like a kitten in need of comfort, remembering how good Even’s lips had felt against his. And then he pulls away, shaking his head with a swift furiosity. But Even keeps looking, not letting his gaze falter, and Isak takes several breaths, wanting so badly to reach out and touch Even as Even had touched him.

 _You can fight this_ , he tells himself. _You_ have _to fight this_.

He doesn’t fight it.

He leans in and softly runs his hand down Even’s chest. The ringmaster is wearing a white shirt, unbuttoned past the collarbone, and Isak fascinates at how strong and broad he is underneath it. He wants to unbutton it completely, to strip it off, but then Even brings one large hand round to Isak’s leg, forcing Isak to balance on top of Even as he steadies himself on the ring of the hoop.

Their crotches brush together, Even squeezing into Isak’s thigh and then up to his ass, as Isak whimpers at the friction.

 _Friction. Oh, God, the friction_. He isn’t tucked, as he is wearing looser shorts than normal to rehearse in, and he is suddenly terrified that Even will feel his soon-to-be-growing hardness against his own.

Isak pulls away, reaching for the top of the hoop; he flips himself up, away from Even, and stares down at him angrily.

“I told you we can’t do this,” he says, and then he swings himself off of the hoop and onto the rigging above him. He pulls down on the rope and Even disappears high above him as Isak heads down towards the stage.

“Draw me down this instant!” Even tells him, his voice frustrated. “We _must_ talk, Isabel.”

Isak feels his heart beating. _My name is not Isabel_ , he wants to scream. He wishes Even could see it, so he can end this charade here and now. Isak would do it, would invite the inevitable incarceration that sexual deviancy would be rewarded with, if only to feel honest for once in his miserable life. But then he thinks about Jonas, and _yes_ , of Even, and of a life which he doesn’t hate, even if he hates what life has boxed him into becoming. He knows he has no strong desire to have this life as he knows it end behind rusting metal bars.

He just wants it to be simple. He wants Even to see him for who he is.

But revealing _Isak_ to Even is a mountain he cannot climb, a door he cannot walk through.

He leaves Even suspended above the stage, and he returns to his trailer. He wants to smash it up, wants to display a rage that is unmistakably aggressive, unmistakably _masculine_. Instead he pushes his head into the pillow and screams until his throat is hoarse and speaking is no longer an option. For the time being, at least, that particular outcome is almost comforting.

* * *

 

The weeks fly by as the circus troupe throw themselves into perfecting their show. Even deliberately stays away from Isabel; he has reached a point where he feels he can only make the situation between them worse, not better.

And as the momentum builds, and the royal visit draws closer, other worries begin to  for his attention.

It begins with a visit from his father. He walks tentatively into the tent one day as though he might catch some deadly illness from standing too close to the acrobats; they have bustled him in excitedly and are now flipping themselves front and backways on the stage, their technique improving every day, even if Adam is currently nursing a broken nose from Yousef’s foot colliding with it.

“Even,” his father says, but Even does not turn to look at him; he yells out, “Keep it tight, Mutasim, arms strong and supportive, remember!” as Mikael jumps from the tallest member’s shoulders.

“Even, you _will_ not stand here and ignore me in the tent that _I_ brought for you,” his father sneers out at him, and Even finally turns to address him.

“My inherentice brought this money, and I paid for it with your disownment of me, remember?”

His father glowers, his lip curling.

“I have heard the king of Sweden is coming, and-”

“You want in on the action, now there is praise and acclaim to be won from such lofty heights?” Even asks. It hits the appropriate nerve: his father gapes at him, temporarily speechless. Finally he clears his throat and straightens up.

“Do not embarrass me, that is all. You continue to use the family name, despite the cease and desist letter from my solicitor. If you must represent the good Bech Næsheim reputation in this way, in front of royalty, I hope to God you take some responsibility for once in your useless, brain-addled life, and do me the courtesy of not dragging it through the mud.”

Over his father’s shoulder, he sees Isabel and Jonas entering the tent, dressed in their faded rehearsal costumes. He sees Isabel’s concerned face, immediately receptive to the fact that Even looks unhappy.

“Have no fear, father. I will take my _addled brain_ and twist it into a small box befitting the generosity of your good tidings towards my production.”

He turns away, calling to the acrobats, “Time, lads! That was excellent. The crown princess will no doubt fall in love with your handsome faces and limber bodies.”

They grin at him, all white flashing teeth, and Jonas greets them with handshakes as he and Isabel approach the stage. For a moment, Even sees his father’s eyes raking down the expanse of her bare legs and he takes a breath to steady his temper before telling him jovially, “Bad luck, father, she isn’t a paid-for housemaid, so I believe she’s off limits to you?”

His father turns and stomps out of the tent, and Even turns back to his aerial artists with a smile. Isabel still has the same concerned expression on her face, but Even glosses it over with a shake of his head.

“Time to fly, angels!”

* * *

 

Even is up each and every night preparing; he catches tiny amounts of sleep here and there, but never for more than an hour. His initial feelings of concern, that the circus performers are not yet ready for this opportunity, has given way to a determination that engulfs his body and consumes every one of his waking thoughts. 

It is a welcome distraction from his feelings towards Isabel, that refuse to abate despite her clear resistance to any romantic developments between them.

And it is also a welcome distraction from the anger he feels at his father. He _will_ prove that the money from his inheritance, that he had spent building his circus, was not in vain.

It’s easy enough to shove those dark thoughts of his father to one side, but Isabel is a different matter. She is everywhere. There is no preventing this: she is the star of his show, the jewel in its crown, and he needs her to be perfect.

And of course she is, because aerial acrobatics are in her blood; she instinctively knows how the body works, how to jump, how to spin, how to extend, how to seduce from afar, but Even pushes her harder still.

 _If I can’t have her_ , he thinks, _I will at least make sure she is the most desired woman in the land._

If she does two somersaults, he demands three, if she extends her legs at an one hundred and thirty degree angle, he asks for one hundred and ninety degrees. If Jonas does not look at her as though he would die for her, he tells her to look at him with even _more_ love and devotion, so that the audience’s heart breaks for her.

She takes it all silently; she does not push back, though Jonas does on occasion. She simply tries harder.

One day Jonas is arguing with him about the itinerary of their act; he wants to begin with the hoop, as they’ve come to use it more often than not to start the show, but Even believes the king will prefer the ribbon; there is something about the way Isabel wraps her body around it that appeals to his sense of drama, and he believes it is the strongest way to open the show; Isabel hurtling towards the stage as the ribbon uncoils around her.

“We should build up to it,” Jonas is saying. “The hoop allows her to show more personality, it is used in the finest shows in Paris, so I’ve heard. It-”

“Do not lecture me about Paris!” Even warns him, and his voice is louder than he intended; it carries across to the benches where some of the performers are watching, bodies weary after their own long rehearsals. “I have lived in Paris, I _know_ Paris. We are not entertaining the king of _France_ , we are entertaining the king of _Sweden_ , and he will prefer _my_  opening. The _ribbon_ is my choice for opening.”

Jonas draws his mouth into a thin line. “It’s also a matter of energy,” he grits out. “Isa-” he stops, as if remembering something, “Isabel needs to reserve her strength for the jumps at the end. The ribbon is far more tiring than the hoop, the upper body strength it requires is-”

“Isabel will be fine,” Even tells him. He does not look at her, instead keeping his expression focused on Jonas. “She will steal the king’s heart. Just as she steals every man’s heart.”

He pulls away from the stage, wondering why his hands are shaking. “Anyway. Enough. We must rest, preserve our strength for tomorrow. We have a long day ahead of us. The show is at seven, and the king is said to abhor tardiness. Good night.”

He leaves the tent, and sets a course to the town, unsure what he hopes to find. When he reaches the tavern he sits within and orders an ale, before inspiration strikes him. Taking his notebook and pencil from his pocket, he begins to write a letter to his father.

 

_Dear Thomas,_

_You are formally invited to ‘A royal viewing’ at the Bech_ _Næsheim_ _Circus tomorrow eve. Come sit with the king, or in his general vicinity, and marvel at the wonders and creations within. Even the most black hearted of men are sure to find redemption within the acts that span the globe and all conceivable areas of talent._

_Your faithful, healthy son_

_Even_

 

He downs his ale and walks the eight miles to the estate in which he lived, as if in a dream. Once posted he barely remembers walking back to the circus, but the heavy feeling in his heart has not lifted and he becomes furious with himself. _This fixes nothing, because there is nothing to fix_ , he scolds himself. _You have no lingering affection for your father and therefore you do not care whether he comes or not._

The problem is not with his father. It is not with the impending show. The problem is with him, with the way he has treated Isabel these past few weeks.

He needs to apologise.

The sun is coming up now; somehow he has walked, and fretted, and drunk all the hours of the night away. He approaches the trailer that Isabel shares with Jonas, with no plan in his head other than the need to apologise to her. Jonas will be there, but that is fine. He can apologise to him, too.

All will be well.

He flings the door open, a smile on his lips, but what he finds within makes him fall back. He stumbles down the steps of the trailer but his eyes remain transfixed.

Jonas is not there, but Isabel is. Only… Isabel is in a state of undress, and underneath her clothes there is no swell of breasts, no female sex between her legs. Instead he sees the unmistakable evidence of male genitalia, a smooth, flat chest, and a boyish haircut.

He turns away, hand to his mouth in shock, and Isabel… no, not _Isabel_ , Even has no idea what his name is… starts to shake uncontrollably.

It all makes sense, and yet… yet Even can not think of one single thing to say in that moment that will make this situation better.

He leaves the boy behind him as he heads towards the tent. 

* * *

 

Isak remains frozen to the spot for minutes afterwards, his body shaking uncontrollably. _You’ve really done it now_ , he tells himself. He feels furious at himself, and at Even for his lack of decorum, just  _bursting in_ with not so much as a knock in warning. He feels furious at Jonas for leaving him to spend another night with Eva; he needed him here as it happened, because if he has to explain what has happened he will start crying and never stop.

“It’s over,” he whispers to himself, when he finally has the control needed to steady himself, to sit on his bed. “It’s all over.”

Even is most likely going to the authorities right at this very moment, telling them of the pervert that has deceived him from the start. Isak will be dragged from here, still naked if he doesn’t get his body to move soon; he’ll be thrown in jail, stripped of the little agency he has… the thought is enough to make his blood run cold.

He dresses in a hurry, in Isabel’s clothes, because he does not want to confront Even as himself. He hurries after him, wondering whether to go straight to the authorities himself. Perhaps he can catch up with Even’s long strides, perhaps he can intercept him as he is entering the law buildings…

But there is no need. On his way through the grounds he checks the tent, desperately, hoping Jonas may be in there alone, rehearsing already. Instead he finds Even at the rigging, checking it over with a blank expression on his face.

“Even,” Isak says. The ringmaster does not look at him; he continues to run his eyes and hands over the wires, tightening where needed, loosening in other places. “Even, please.”

“Was it all a lie?"

The words sting; Isak feels tears at his eyes. _I have deceived him but more than that. I have betrayed his trust_. Isak knows he has given Even false hope; it is not just Even who has pursued this attraction between them. Isak has enjoyed the thrill of it, even as he’s worried about the outcome of it.

“It doesn’t matter, does it?” Isak says. “None of it matters now.”

Even’s face hardens, though Isak does not understand why. None of it _does_ matter. Once Even has reported him, there will be nothing left for Even to think about. It is not as though he loved Isak. He loved a phantom, a lie.

“Fine. Let’s just get the show over with, then.”

Isak chokes out a sob. _Of course_. Even needs him here tonight, to impress the king; _Isabel_ is still useful for now, at least. But once that’s through, once Even has won his glory and acclaim, there will be nothing left for Isak.

“Will you at least be honest enough to give me your name?” Even asks, when Isak turns to leave. His voice sounds hollow of all but defeat.

“Isak. My name is Isak.”

“A good name. I would have liked to have known Isak.”

They’re interrupted by the acrobat troupe coming in to warm up; they are excited, nervous, their voice a never-ending bubble of chatter. Isak looks at them for a moment; their bright eyes, their easy smiles, their physical contact with one another, and he listens to their animated voices.

For a moment he curses his life, and his own deceit, and this plan that he should never have convinced Jonas to let him conduct.

He casts one last look over his shoulder at Even, but Even is still looking away from him. Ignoring him. He thinks that maybe he sees a stirring of regret concealed within that broad chest, but in the next moment it changes, and all he sees is a man ready for the most important day of his life.

A life that has not ever, and will not ever, include Isak. 

* * *

 

The hours tick by and Isak becomes more agitated as the day draws on. He feels pinned to the circus grounds by his fears, unsure whether it is easier to leave now and live a life on his own, or to stay and face the consequences of his actions.

After leaving the tent he had gone to tell Jonas everything, to beg his best friend to run with him. But he had found him with Eva, pressed up against the side of the trailer, his hands in her hair as he’d told her how much he loved her.

The realisation - that he is no longer the most important person in Jonas’s life - had felt like a sharp slap to the face. But after that initial humiliation, another feeling, more intangible than the last, had stayed his tongue.

 _He would run with me, but it would ruin his life_.

He is not above acting selfishly with Jonas; he has used Jonas’s brotherly affections towards him many times when he has chased the attention of his best friend, usually when there have been other girls involved. He has lied, pouted, sabotaged, because Jonas has been the only constant throughout his life. Isak has always been loathe to give him up.

But it is different with Eva. She is not some fleeting fancy of Jonas’s, she is not a quick fumble under the bed covers, gone in the morning. Isak has never seen him look at any girl the way he looks at her. And he has certainly never been on the receiving end of that look himself.

Even Chile, the idea of it, of _escaping_ there, was Isak’s dream, not Jonas’s. Jonas is content so long as he is with those he loves. He has no affinity to one place; his only loyalty is to those he considers important to him.

Isak had walked away before either of them noticed him, back to his own trailer. He’d packed his bag and then he’d hid himself away in the paddock, crouched down behind Agnes’s pen, arms wrapped around his legs as he’d tried to formulate a plan.

He owes Even the show tonight. For hurting him, for betraying his trust, he knows that a performance is the least he can do. Once that is over, perhaps he can run. Perhaps the police will not be there immediately, waiting to spirit him away. Perhaps Even will show him a little clemency and allow him a sporting headstart.

 _He is a good man_ , Isak thinks. _He will give you that much_.

And as he thinks that, as he understands that he lied to and cheated and led a good man into a false paradise of desire and maybe more, maybe something like love, he starts to cry silently, his shoulders heaving with each sob, his stomach tearing into two as he brings his arms away from his legs and presses into the flesh underneath his vest, doubling over in grief.

He wants to tell Even how sorry he is, wants to go on his knees in front of him and beg his forgiveness. He would offer his soul to him if it would give Even any sort of fleeting pleasure.

Perhaps he cries a little, too, for Isabel, who could accept the looks that men gave her in a way that Isak has never been able to, who is beautiful and skilled at something, unlike Isak who has no family, no prospects, no real identity. He has never derived any sexual pleasure from dressing as a girl, but there was something within the echoes of her spirit that Isak had clung to, had been comforted by. Her softness, her desirability.

It is no matter now. After tonight he will not be Isabel any longer, and he won’t really be Isak either. He’ll be nothing more than a criminal.

He smiles to himself, then, because there’s an irony to this revelation. He will no longer be the twins; he has finally found a way to escape the influence of Gemini on his fortunes.

He has finally found a way to rewrite his stars.

* * *

 

 _My circus performers are on fine form tonight_ , Even realises. He has navigated the day as though in a waking nightmare; he hasn’t stopped to appreciate just how hard his troupe have been working, how their efforts have paid off. The acrobats are precise, Christine’s voice has never sounded more beautiful. Eva seduces the crowd with an effortless floor routine, and Magnus and Vilde reduce them to hysterical laughter. Even Agnes seems more joyful than usual. 

The king of Sweden watches it all with a delighted expression on his face, his booming laugh encouraging those around him to laugh and clap all the louder.

The night draws to a close and the anticipation for the final act builds. Isabel… no, not Isabel, _Isak_ , has not turned up for rehearsals today, and Even had half expected him to flee before the show. He wouldn’t have blamed him. He feels sick to his stomach at his actions, at how he’d pushed this boy into a position of having to lie about his identity.

 _I was so stringent about wanting a boy and a girl as my aerial artists_. _I never considered there was another possibility._

And now it’s over, and he’s blown his chances, and within his heart he feels a great pain, because he had genuinely fallen in love with this boy’s soul and now that same soul had rejected him utterly.

Even hates himself for what he has done. He has no idea what will happen after tonight. He can only hope that Isak does not hate him too much.

The lights draw down and then flash back up, blindingly bright, and Even takes his cue. “Ladies and gents, this is the moment you’ve waited for!” he roars to the crowd.

The crowd roars back.

High above the stage, above the rows of cushioned benches where the audience cheers and applauds as the final act of the evening begins, where the roof of the big top tent meets into a single point, Even steps aside and watches the boy fly from the rigging, as swift as a sparrow, his body covered in glitter and gold.

Isak knows each spin, each precise movement. And yet tonight… tonight something is off, and Even sees it immediately.

His timing is just a fraction of a second behind where it should be. And his face… his beautiful face is etched in pain. Real pain, not the pain Even has pushed him into affecting for the performance. He does not want to be here.

Even exchanges a frantic glance with Jonas, high above him, and Jonas notices, nodding to show he understands.

He pushes of from his perch early. He extends outwards, hands outstretched.

Even can only watch in mute horror as Isak fails to clasp those outstretched hands.

He falls to the ground, and Even’s heart falls with him.

* * *

 

Isak wakes to a cool cloth on his forehead, the feeling of being able to breathe, and he looks down to see his corset has been taken off. 

He is lying in bed, a bigger bed than usual. He is bare chested, his scalp able to breathe, which means there is no wig on it. He wipes at his eyes and looks down to see makeup and glitter smudged on his arm.

He looks up, and Jonas and Even face him from either side of the bed.

“I’m alive?” he asks. He remembers that his final thought had been _I don’t want to die_ but he didn’t remember hitting the ground.

“The acrobats… I’ve never seen them move so fast. They formed a human net below you.” Jonas’s voice is cracked and strained. Isak feels tears at his eyes. He’s never once acknowledged the troupe of acrobat boys, even when they’d smiled at him, slid more food over to him, opened doors for him. He’s envied their existence, the ease they’ve been able to conduct their lives with, the boldness their gender has afforded them, as he’s had to hold back on the sidelines, nothing more than a silent, pretty girl.

“Tell them thank you.”

“You’ll be able to tell them yourself soon,” Jonas says. He shoots Even a loaded glance, then returns his unwavering gaze to Isak. “It’s time the truth came out.”

Isak shakes his head. “No. Please, at least… let me just disappear. To jail, or to run, I don’t care, but _please_ , Jonas, don’t tell them the truth about me. Let me have one shred of dignity remaining.”

“Isak, they won’t _care_. The performers here, in this circus, they are good people. They care about each other, and about you. They have been devastated, crying. They-”

“They’re crying for _her_. For _Isabel_. They don’t know me, Jonas! Nobody does, except you.” He looks for the first time at Even and hardens his face. “ _Nobody_.”

“I believe people can see a good soul, no matter how well it has been concealed,” Even replies evenly.

Isak wants to argue, but he’s so tired. He can’t quite comprehend why Even is sitting here, looking at him, in a way that doesn’t suggest anger or betrayal but something much, much softer and sweeter. He wants to fight against it because he’s sure it is a false promise, that unnamed forces will tell him _no, it was simply a joke, you poor fool_ as soon as he lets himself believe Even does not hate him.

“A good soul doesn’t lie and deceive. A good soul doesn’t dress… in clothes that they are not supposed to dress in. A good soul doesn’t…” He blinks back angry tears. “Doesn’t have feelings for men, doesn’t let men kiss him.”

Jonas grabs his hand suddenly, shaking his head. “Stop doing this to yourself, Issy.”

“It’s true! I’m disgusting. I don’t deserve to be happy, I don’t deserve to be forgiven. Report me, Even, please, it’s the best thing for everyone, for you and Jonas and the rest-”

“Stop it!” Jonas says, his voice louder, pleading. “Isak, you did not ask for any of this. The lies, the clothing… that was me, as much as you. I allowed it because it was the easiest way to make money! I could have stopped it, I know you would have listened to me, and I didn’t! So if you… if you think you should be in jail for that, then I’ll go with you. And just you try and stop me!”

Isak glares at him, chastened, and then he points out, “If not for that, then… for… you know?” He wants to look at Even again but he’s frightened. A lack of anger is one thing, but Isak doesn’t think he can bear to see the rejection in Even’s eyes. “It’s wrong. It’s against God, and the law.”

“Then God and the law are wrong. Not you,” Even says softly. Isak is forced to look up at that. Even’s voice is set with such a simple determination that even Jonas glances across at him, surprised. “Perhaps you can give me and Isak a minute?” he says, and Isak looks at Jonas, nodding.

Jonas gets up reluctantly, telling Isak, “I’ll just be outside.” He leaves the trailer, though Isak does not hear his footsteps go too far.

“Is this where you sleep?” Isak asks. He looks up at the roof and is a little sad to see it blank. Doesn’t Even like to look up at the stars as well? Don’t they give him the same comfort, the same grounding, that they give Isak?

“It is. Rather drab and cold, isn’t it?”

Isak nods. “You made ours so beautiful.”

“Well. I don’t give _too_ much importance to the stars. I have made my own fortunes so far, and I continue to do so. But… I do like to know that my friends are happy, and surrounded by beauty.”

Isak smiles at that. “They are. I hear them talking. They think you’re a fine master… sorry,” he stops, remembering Even’s dislike of the word, “manager. And friend.”

“And you? Do you think of me as a manager _and_ a friend?”

 _I think of you as so much more_ , Isak wants to say.

“I don’t know what to think anymore.”

“Maybe… stop thinking so much?”

Isak laughs out loud at that. “I think too much. I always have. It’s been even worse recently, because I have not being able to speak out loud. And because-” _Because falling in love makes me scared, makes my mind irrational, makes the words whirl around until they’ve lost all meaning_.

“Because?”

“I have been worried about the king’s visit,” he lies. He thinks it’s a convincing enough lie, but then Even peers at him through narrowed eyes, a mockingly suspicious expression on his face, and Isak feels himself growing hot behind the ears. “I have!”

“Well, you certainly gave him a show he will never forget,” Even points out, and Isak covers his face in his hands, mortified.

“Was he angry?”

“Angry?! He thought it was part of the show! Everyone did! I believe they could hear the applause all the way back in his royal court in Sweden.”

Isak laughs at that, despite himself. “I’m glad it worked out for you.”

“For all of us. There is no place to go from here but further up. The upper echelons of society, if we desire it!”

Isak’s heart feels like it is tearing in two. He manages a small smile. “I wish I could be part of it.”

“And who is to say you can’t?”

“Don’t do this, Even. Please. I cannot… I cannot be around you. I cannot continue to lie. I cannot… I don’t _want_ to be Isabel anymore. I’m sick of lying. I just want to be me. Isak. Whatever that means. But whatever it _does_ mean, it means being away from here, because you don’t want Isak, you want Isabel.”

“I want whatever you want to give me.”

“I don’t mean as a business proposal! _You_ , you don’t want Isak. _You_ want Isabel.”

“I want whatever you want to give me,” Even repeats, more firmly, and Isak looks up at him from under his lashes, his breath catching. _Surely he can’t mean…_ “I am in love with you. Your name, what’s in between your legs… apologies for being so crude… but none of that is important to me. I do not fall in love with the body, with the title, I fall in love with the soul.”

“I don’t understand,” Isak says. He is openly crying now, and he wishes he could stop. He’s so tired of being confused. “You can’t love me? I am… I am not…”

“You _are_ though. You are. You are _Isak_.” His voice sounds like a song when he says Isak’s name. Like an anthem in Isak’s heart. He wishes he could hear it for the rest of his life.

Maybe he can. Maybe… that’s what Even is trying to tell him?

“We would be rejected from society,” he tries to argue, but it is a paltry argument, and Even scoffs at it with a small smile.

“I am already rejected from society. My father wants nothing to do with me. He did not even deign to attend the show last night. I am seen as nothing more than a brain-deficient cad, stripped of my status.”

“Brain-deficient?” Isak asks, confused. Even sighs, nodding.

“That’s what I said.”

“But I don’t understand. You’re clearly intelligent, of sound business mind… you are creative, brilliant, you-”

“Gosh, don’t stop there, it’s been a while since I’ve been praised so abundantly,” Even laughs. Isak catches himself and flashes a small, embarrassed smile. “I suppose in the spirit of honesty, it is only fair to you I tell you my own _shameful_ secret.” He takes a deep breath and then says, “I experience periods of… of mania, I suppose you would call it. I believe I have been building up to it, these last few days… hence why I burst into your trailer like that, and why I was unable to talk to you after, to focus on it for any great length of time. I had been walking for many hours the night before, barely aware of what I was doing.”

Isak listens, taking in the calm words. He does not understand what they mean, not all of them, but he thinks he understands that he has nothing to fear.

“The mania is often followed by depression. I do not have control of it. And sometimes I have false starts; moods that feel like mania but are simply highs, joyful highs. Whatever I am feeling at the moment, I know that my feelings for you are honest and true. But I understand if you do not want to be with someone who… well, it is like a battle, sometimes, so it is perfectly understandable if you-”

“Are you really giving me the option to choose _you_? Excellent deflection, Even,” Isak points out, laughing. “I still half believe you’re going to reject me.”

“For what?” Even’s face is so sincere that in that moment Isak forgets the lies he’s told, the feelings of shame he has repressed for so many years.

And a moment spreads to a minute, and a minute spreads to two minutes, and in that moment he kisses Even, and Even kisses him back, and the shame dims and flickers out to an ember.

* * *

 

Isak rests for a week, because Even refuses to allow otherwise. There is no talk of performance; Jonas closes the show each night on his own, and the crowd accept it, though there continue to be whispers about the Angel of Kristiania. Many ask Even, when he walks into town, when she will be back, and Even merely responds, “That is the thing with angels, gentlemen, you cannot predict their presence.” 

As the week draws to a close, and Isak begins to grow stir crazy in the small trailer, Even finally allows him to head back to rehearsals. He does so as Isak. Nobody minds. Nobody really cares. They are simply relieved to see him back on his feet.

“It’s confusing me,” Even overhears Adam telling Mutasim. “I mean, am I still allowed to think about her… him? When I’m… you know… relieving myself?”

Even clears his throat sharply, and Adam spends the rest of the evening apologising to Even.

But he’s not sure how Isak will approach rehearsals, or the show. He has told him there is no pressure at all. If Isak wants to stop performing, he can. If he wants to perform as Isak, he can. If he wants to perform as Isabel, he can.

Even just needs him to be happy.

When Isak steps into the tent, he’s greeted with a litany of relieved smiles. Even watches, delighted, as he’s embraced by each of the performers; he looks over to see Jonas standing on the edges, squeezing Eva’s hand. His expression is peaceful for the first time all week.

Earlier, Jonas had taken him to one side, his voice low and dark. “I almost killed a boy in Gjøvik for trying to use him. He only wanted him as Isabel, and even then, only in the dark, wrapped up in sordidness. I’m not sure if I trust you, Even, but he loves you. And you say you accept him for _him_ , not for the girl he’s had to pretend to be. Just know I’m always watching.”

“Are you going to start digging a grave for dramatic effect?” Eva had said to him, and Jonas had pulled away sheepishly, before following her back to the trailer.

Even nods at Jonas now. _Watch all you want. I would never hurt him._

Isak rehearses as Isak. His fall from the top of the tent, and his subsequent rest, has clearly affected his confidence; he will not be ready to perform tonight. But in a week, maybe two, he will be there.

When the others have left the stage, to rest for a while before the show, Isak sits on his hoop and pats beside him. Even approaches, a skip to his step, and stretches his arms out so he is clasping the sides, looking down at Isak.

“I think I’ll perform as Isabel,” Isak says. “When I’m ready.”

Even nods. He had a feeling Isak would choose this, though he prompts him regardless. “Are you sure? You can do anything, Isak. I will not think any less of you if-”

“I like being her, sometimes. I like being on stage as her. I can stop thinking, and I can just _do_. That night I fell, I was Isak. I was trying to be Isak, and I hated it, because Isak doesn’t belong up there. His feet belong on the ground. _My_ feet belong on the ground. With you.”

Even flashes a small, mischievous smile. “Does that rule apply at all times, my devious little Gemini?”

Isak raises an eyebrow at him, and Even pulls at the rope. They begin to move up from the stage, and Isak continues to stare up at him, lovestruck and breathless.

It _is_ love, and Even returns it in kind with a kiss to Isak’s pursed lips.

“Shouldn’t you be preparing for the show?” Isak asks, after their mouths are dry and their lips are chapped and their bodies are still aching for more. Even moves closer still to him, until his voice is a breath in Isak’s ear.

“The greatest show is here. Right here.”

Isak wraps one arm around Even, and with the other he pulls a rope, the sandbag landing with a thud on the stage, as they ascend higher.

 


End file.
